


Freudian Slip

by Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 05:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody/pseuds/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody
Summary: It’s like when you call your teacher “Mom” in front of the entire class, but a thousand times worse.





	Freudian Slip

**Author's Note:**

> Just another little "hey, what if" idea that spiraled out of control.

The Master of Masters was made of quirks and eccentricities more than legitimate personality traits. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—he was oddly consistent about it, and after a while, his idiosyncratic nature was even endearing. A little exhausting, but endearing.

The sticky notes, however, were a bit much, as was his tendency to leave them in places like ceiling corners or lampshades. He embellished them at random: a heart-dotted “i” here, a smiley face there. He made liberal use of underlining when he really wanted to emphasize that it was of the utmost importance that the dishes get washed. (Today, Gula.)

These notes could be found at any time, in any place, and for any reason. The only constant was the Master’s signature—as if anyone else even communicated by sticky note, and as if any of them would have been mistaken for his. Nevertheless, he signed each and every note, whether it was a stern reminder for his protégés to do their chores or a rousing pep talk, sometimes so in-depth and wholehearted that he needed to spread it out across a dozen notes, slapped haphazardly (but with love) all the way from one end of the kitchen cabinets to the other for Ira to stare at in bafflement when he went to make coffee.

No matter what, the Master always signed with a simple dash and his initials: “M.O.M.” No one ever read the notes aloud. No one discussed them. The Foretellers simply took it in stride, and the sticky notes became the latest in a long line of bizarre but easily-adapted-to behavior.

But after months of subliminal conditioning, a slip-up was both inevitable and imminent.

All seven of them gathered at the round table, reviewing their schedules for the week. The itineraries were a fairly new development; it seemed the Master was so pleased with his sticky note system that he decided to make written chore charts a regular thing. Invi and Ira read the sheets from top to bottom while Ava, Gula, and Aced skimmed for their own names first. Luxu, who had been assigned the glorious task of transcribing the copies, didn’t even bother looking at his. The paper lay before him while he leaned his hip against the side of the table and waited for the meeting to commence.

It proceeded as usual. Ira and Invi were given various administrative duties. Gula and Ava were responsible for making the rounds on the outskirts of town. And Aced was appointed to Chirithy care. “Make ‘em feel loved,” the Master said, tipping a small vial of newborns onto the table. “Show them how to find their footing in this wide new world.”

They landed in a heap on the tabletop, some of them rolling away and scrambling to crawl back to each other. Ava’s hands itched to scoop them up, safe and sound, but she clasped her fingers together and left it to Aced. He looked at the Master for guidance, received none, and then tentatively held his broad finger out to the Chirithies, wiggling it gently when a few of them grabbed on with tiny paws. Ava was rapt with awe and fondness, and Ira set his jaw tight, trying not to smile too much.

While the rest of the group cooed and smiled over the baby Chirithies (“daydreams” was what the Master called them at this stage), Luxu picked at a loose thread on his glove, utterly unmoved, and Gula reviewed the itinerary with a frown. This was the fourth time he’d been put on patrol, and every week, it was the same. A few Heartless here and there, maybe one notable but isolated incident to report. And that was it. He had other skills. Critical thinking skills. He could do more than be treated like a generic scout.

He’d brought it up before, and the Master’s response had been, “What, you want me to put one of the old-timers on foot patrol?” Ira and Aced had looked up from across the room and glanced at each other, trying to figure out who that comment could have referred to, if not them. “You and Ava are the spry and nimble little whippersnappers we need in this operation. You’re the oil that keeps the old gears of this clock tower moving. If we didn’t have your young spirits, your bright eyes keeping a watch over things out there—heck, Gula, where would we even _be_?”

It had sounded so important and essential, the way he’d said it. Gula had accepted that explanation with a slight bow of his head, both in gratitude and as an apology for questioning the Master. It wasn’t until Gula was dismissed from the room that he was able to hear just how condescending and evasive that answer was. It had left him feeling even more disregarded than before.

Now he looked at the same old responsibilities for the fifth week in a row, and he knew that if he had to do one more patrol without a break, he would lose it. He didn’t want to bring up the same issue twice, especially when his last attempt had left it seemingly resolved. But as Luxu stood up straight and Ava and Ira helped corral the Chirithies toward Aced, Gula knew the meeting was coming to an end, and he would lose his chance until the following week. When the Master asked if there were any questions, comments, or concerns, Gula decided to speak up.

“Yeah, actually, Mom—”

Gula stopped mid-sentence with his mouth open, as if he were willing the word to unspeak itself and return from whence it came. Ava and Ira froze, their hands still hovering above the table, outstretched toward the gaggle of Chirithies. Aced let the cubs nudge him impatiently with their knitted noses while he stared at Gula, his jaw slack. Invi had been giving the itinerary a final review for grammatical errors—which the Master sometimes intentionally included, just to rile her up—but her head snapped toward Gula in a heartbeat. Luxu slowly stopped inspecting his glove to give Gula a long, hard look, and then, carefully, he let his gaze slide toward the Master.

Despite his endless supply of non-sequiturs and zany gestures, there was no one better than the Master at controlling his image. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, regarding Gula as inscrutably as ever, and his silence and stillness permeated the room until even the Chirithies stopped squeaking and looked up to see what had caused the sudden change in the atmosphere.

“I’m sorry,” the Master said slowly, more of a lead-in to a joke than an apology, “ _what_ was that?”

He wasn’t angry—he never got angry. Sometimes Gula wished he would. That undercurrent of amusement in his voice was unnerving at times like this. It was the tone of someone who spoke in deliberately vague terms, who upended bottles of baby Chirithies with less consideration than Gula would have used to set the dinner table. His amusement was secretive, esoteric, meant to remind his followers that he was operating on a level they couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

The Master’s attention was still on Gula. It gave him the impression of being circled, patiently and curiously. He knew he could have just owned up to his awkwardness, shared a laugh with his fellow Foretellers, and moved on. But instead he chose to try and save what little face he had left, by doubling down on an obvious lie.

“Uh, I said, _Mom_ ,” Gula repeated, sounding as flippant as possible while the Master stood up straighter, surprised that Gula had admitted it so easily. “Y’know, ‘cause you’re always calling these ‘family meetings,’ leaving little reminders for us on sticky notes. Giving us chore charts every week,” he added, holding up the itinerary as evidence, which the Master glanced at before returning his gaze to Gula, presumably. “So, yeah,” Gula concluded, “I mean, if you’re gonna act like a mother hen, then I’m just gonna call it like I see it.”

He put the paper back down, trying not to fidget. The tension in the room was palpable, though slightly undercut by the other Foretellers’ relief that it was Gula who had said it, not them. The Master continued to stare at Gula, and just when everyone—even Luxu—started to think they would crack under the silence and scrutiny, the Master snorted.

“Nice try, small fry,” he said, the rich brightness returning to his voice. “No need to be self-conscious—we all know you were just speaking from the heart, which I fully endorse. A little rude to nickname your Master before he’s nicknamed you, but I’ll let it slide. In fact,” he added, bringing his hands out from behind his back and clapping them together, “I’m embracing this new title until one of you comes up with a better one. If you _can_.”

The rest of the Foretellers nodded in assent, and the Master pointed valiantly toward the door. “You have your assignments,” he announced. “Now shake a leg, work hard, and make your Mom proud.”

They departed, Aced with an armful of tiny Chirithies, Invi with her scarf pulled up a little higher to hide her smile, and Ava and Ira laughing as politely as they could manage at their teammate’s expense. Gula tried to slink out, but the Master gave him a fond pat on the head as he passed by, and it took every ounce of Gula’s self-restraint not to duck out of the way like a petulant child. He sighed and followed his teammates out into the hall, breaking off from the group as soon as he could to stew in his embarrassment for a while.

The door swung shut, and Luxu leaned on the table again. “Okay, that was the funniest thing that kid’s ever said.”

The Master was already laughing, one hand braced against the table and the other holding a stitch in his side. “‘ _Mom_ ,’” was all he managed to say, pointing at himself before he let out another guffaw.

“You really got a kick out of that, huh?”

“ _Oh_ , that made my week.” The Master raised his hand, and it disappeared under his hood as he wiped tears from his eyes. “You have _no idea_ how hard it was to keep it together.”

“Might’ve been nicer to just laugh at him.”

“Probably.” The Master finished wiping his eyes and sighed. “Whew. Been a while since one of you kids surprised me. Nice to know someone still can.”

“To be fair, I think he surprised himself as much as you.”

“The best kind of surprise,” the Master said. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving.”

* * *

When it comes to meetings, Saïx insists on full attendance—partly due to his strict, task-oriented nature, and partly out of the petty belief that if _he_ has to suffer through Xemnas’s indiscernible monologues, then _everyone_ has to suffer through them. It’s the only time he seems to understand the concept of camaraderie.

And no one suffers more than Demyx. He sits next to Saïx, after all. He can’t even swing his feet without Saïx shooting him a dour look. It’s always just out of the corner of his eye, but his eyes have such sharp corners that a sidelong glance has the same impact as a dead-on glare.

Demyx tries to focus, he really does, but it’s hard with half the Organization gone. More than half, now, with Axel’s recent desertion—or was it demise? It’s hard to tell. After the whole C.O. kerfuffle, Demyx gave up trying to keep track and just counted himself lucky to be among the survivors. Relatively speaking, anyway. Deep down, he wonders if he should feel more concerned about the dwindling size of their team, but it’s not like they ever benefited from “safety in numbers.” Demyx didn’t think that mentality applied when a) he couldn’t trust half his teammates not to stab him in the back, and b) the few times they _did_ try to work together, they ended up causing more damage to each other than to their enemy.

And hey, another surprising benefit of the downsizing is that there are fewer people clogging up the acoustics in the conference room. Demyx hadn’t realized it back when the seats were filled, but the high ceilings and the roundness of the walls do wonders for the sound quality in this place. It even transforms Xemnas’s voice—usually low and droning, as if he has to summon every shred of willpower just to finish a sentence—into something rich and mellifluous. He really does have a lovely voice, Demyx thinks, when he’s using it properly. He always speaks in that maddeningly slow, soft, near-whisper, and it drives Demyx nuts. The man has _potential,_ if he would just put some _oomph_ into it.

All of them have potential, come to think of it. Xigbar for sure. He seems to revel in making himself sound as obnoxious as possible, but Demyx is _positive_ the guy would have a beautiful singing voice if he gave it any effort whatsoever. Luxord’s voice is pure gold, and he’s a master of accents, as it turns out. He has such a wide range of them in his repertoire that it makes Demyx wonder if his normal accent is even real, or if he’s just playing an incredibly long-term prank. Xaldin and Saïx are nice enough to listen to as well, when they aren’t being absolutely terrifying. And sometimes even then.

He glances around the room while Xemnas pontificates about whatever. No one’s making a secret of their boredom. They’ve heard it all before: Keyblades and Heartless and light and doors and yada yada yada. Across the circle, Xigbar’s resting his head on his fist, and his eye is half-lidded. Xaldin is leaning back more than usual. Only Luxord and Saïx are doing their damnedest to at least look like they’re paying attention.

Demyx feels like he’s in middle school again, getting a lecture from the principal. He wonders what the rest of these guys were like back then. He has a hard time believing that someone like Saïx was ever a child, but hey, it’s not like they were born Nobodies. Well, Demyx was, according to his father and some less-than-supportive teachers.

He frowns. Even when he’s just trying to distract himself, he always seems to gravitate toward the least pleasant memories of his past life. There must be good ones buried somewhere in his mulleted head, but if there are, he’s never stumbled across them. He supposes he could just tune back in to the meeting, but what’s the point? Saïx has stopped assuming that Demyx will ever pay attention, and he’s started preparing summaries of the most important and relevant information to give to Demyx afterward, usually crammed onto a single index card. His writing is impossibly small and spiky, and on more than one occasion, Demyx has broken into Vexen’s old lab to read the notes under a magnifying glass. He wonders if Saïx does it to spite him (likely), or if he’s seriously just that tightly wound (equally likely).

Something Xemnas says snags his attention. It’s about Roxas—well, not Roxas, not anymore. The other guy. Demyx could really use one of those index cards he’s so fond of complaining about. He should have learned the kid’s name by now, but it’s not like they’re supposed to use it, right? Still, he can’t coast along anymore, hoping that another teammate will pick up his slack. If he wants to be in the loop—and he figures he does, if it means upping his odds of survival—then he’ll need to take some initiative.

“Well, then,” Xemnas says, in a voice that sounds like he found it by overturning a stone, “if there are no questions, then we shall—”

“Oh, hey, Dad?”

Xemnas pauses, his slow momentum grinding even more slowly to a halt. He turns his head toward Demyx, who’s frozen with a wide-eyed, almost-smile plastered on his face as the horror sinks in. For just one second, he thinks maybe he can get away with it. Maybe no one will notice. But his words echo in the _wonderfully_ resonant chamber, with its _beautiful_ acoustics, and Demyx, caught in a sucking vortex of his own stupidity, wonders why he ever thought speaking up would _increase_ his chances of survival.

No one else has moved. Most of them are still processing the fact that Demyx just referred to their leader, the Superior of the In-Between, the wielder of Nothingness, the lord of The World That Never Was, as “Dad.” Saïx is sitting even more rigidly than usual, like an animal waiting for a predator to strike, avoiding eye contact at all costs and yet acutely aware of everything and everyone around him. He’s radiating an aura of pure dread and steely panic that does nothing to soothe Demyx’s own nerves.

Xigbar, on the other hand, is slowly lifting his head off his fist. His single eye is alight and golden, and a disbelieving smile dawns on his face, as if he’s just witnessed a miracle of comedic timing that occurs once every few hundred years.

It can’t be more than a handful of seconds that Xemnas keeps them waiting—a normal response time for him—but Demyx can feel the closest approximation of a soul being wrung out of his body with each passing moment. His fate is being sealed like a casket lid. And Xemnas, with his voice from the void, from the stars, from deep, unknowable oblivion, finally replies.

“Yes, son?”

The wave of discomfort and nervous hilarity that sweeps through the room is unprecedented. Luxord stares at Xemnas, his mouth ever so slightly agape. Xaldin has never looked less at ease to be sitting by his Superior’s side. Xigbar looks like he’s seen the face of God.

Demyx risks a quick glance at Saïx and sees that Number VII seems to be on the verge of passing out. Xemnas has to look directly past his second-in-command to see Demyx, putting Saïx in the crossfire of whatever the hell is happening right now. He shifts, desperately trying to figure out if it would be more awkward to stay where he is, or to conspicuously lean back in his chair.

Xemnas is waiting for Demyx’s question, comment, or concern, of which the rest of the group now has many. Demyx flounders like the hopeless Pisces he is and stammers out the first thing he can think of, which ends up being, “So, um…you know Roxas?” Xemnas nods once to affirm that he does, in fact, know Roxas. “What’s his, uh…what’s his name now? Again?”

Any second now, Saïx is going to unleash the kind of glare that will require Demyx to chug a hi-potion afterward. But he hasn’t moved a muscle. Maybe he’s ossifying from sheer stress. Maybe they’ll never be able to pry him off his chair. Xemnas, on the other hand, raises his eyebrows—just enough to communicate, “That’s _truly_ what you interrupted me for?”—before he says with over-the-top patience that just makes everything worse, “ _Sora_.”

“Sora, Sora. Right,” Demyx says with a laugh that betrays how little air he has left in his lungs. He looks down, feeling every inch of his face and ears burning, and if he had any doubts that “Nobodies don’t have emotions” was a colossal and bald-faced _lie_ , those doubts are gone for good. He can feel Xemnas’s uniquely horrible gaze on him—profoundly judgmental and yet scientifically curious, as if it’s only just now occurring to him how _bizarre_ the Organization’s self-proclaimed rock star is. But eventually, Xemnas lets him off the hook and concludes the meeting, informing the “gentlemen” that they’re dismissed as he vanishes from his throne.

Saïx follows suit without a single word or glance in anyone’s direction. Demyx wouldn’t be surprised if he and Xemnas are going to meet up and gossip privately about this incident over mojitos, or whatever it is they do in their spare time. Of course, it’s also likely that Saïx has peaced out to some remote world to get over the secondhand embarrassment, or maybe just let it annihilate him on the spot.

Not a bad idea, Demyx thinks. He’s the next one to leave, trying to warp to safety as fast as possible, but in his panic, he only makes it as far as the hallway directly outside the conference room, and it isn’t exactly difficult for his coworkers to locate and ambush him. Xaldin is the first, and he is uncharacteristically blunt about it.

“ _What_ —” He points back to the room. “—was _that_?”

“What? I dunno. What?” Demyx says weakly as Luxord joins them, looking just as perturbed. “Nothing. Just a little, ah…nothing.”

“Demyx,” Luxord says, employing his best ‘reasonable father figure’ tone of voice, which is just about the least helpful tactic he could use at the moment. “That was _hardly_ nothing. You called him ‘Dad.’”

“It was just a brain fart! You know, when you’re really tired or bored and your mind just kind of, like…goes fishing? That never happens to you guys?”

“Oh, of course,” Luxord says, suddenly and suspiciously agreeable. “You know what he means, right, Xaldin? When you’re feeling a little bit tired, and so you call your lord and leader ‘Dad’ in front of _everybody_.”

Xaldin shakes his head and rubs his eyes, and before Demyx can defend himself further, he hears the slap of footsteps coming up from behind him. He barely has time to wince before Xigbar flings his arm around him and drags him into a half-hug.

“God _damn_ , kid,” he says through his laughter. “And I thought I’d seen people make asses of themselves every conceivable way by now. _Classic_.”

“You know,” Luxord says while Demyx glares and shoves Xigbar’s arm away, “Demyx calling him ‘Dad,’ I’m not too surprised by—”

“Yeah, thanks,” Demyx says as he tries to un-squish his shoulder pads.

“—but Xemnas…” Luxord glances at Xaldin for back-up, and he shrugs.

“Hard to figure him out, even under normal circumstances. Is it possible he was trying to be…you know. Funny?”

“What, on _purpose_?”

“Is it possible,” Luxord says, ignoring Xigbar, “that he was trying to be rude? Perhaps he didn’t appreciate Demyx’s, ah…lapse in judgment,” he says, avoiding Demyx’s more crude terminology. “Could it have been his attempt at sarcasm?”

Demyx shrugs, and they all stand there quietly for a few moments, mulling it over. Xaldin starts to look uncomfortable, already regretting what he’s about to suggest.

“Is it possible,” he finally says, “that Xemnas…actually thinks Demyx _is_ his son?”

Luxord is ready to chide Xaldin for how ridiculous that idea is, until he really thinks about it. Everything about Xemnas is an enigma, his thought process most of all, and it seems that the more he tries to _be_ a certain way—especially straightforward or matter-of-fact—the more cryptic he becomes.

“Well, hey,” Xigbar says cheerfully, “anything’s possible, right? I mean, hell, if Demyx thinks Xemnas is his _dad_ , then who’s to say—”

Demyx may not know much, but he knows he doesn’t need to stick around to get roasted by his teammates any longer. So he puts one of his few functioning survival skills to use, and he flees. He jogs around the nearest corner while Xigbar’s delighted cackle fades in the distance, and then he teleports away, confident that he won’t be followed this time.

When Demyx reappears in his room and flops down on his bed, he considers that there _is_ a silver lining, however morbid it may be: at least only half the team was left to witness that fiasco. And who knows? Maybe this mortifying experience will get Saïx to stop making him attend so many meetings.


End file.
